


A Friend in Need

by gabriel42



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-11-06 22:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriel42/pseuds/gabriel42
Summary: “Spock, I'm here to help,” says Captain Pike. They may both end up regretting the offer. (Mature content in later chapters.)





	1. Chapter 1

Captain Pike knows that Lieutenant Spock values his privacy. So when Phil tells him that Spock is sick and confined to quarters, he doesn't press for details. It's not that he's worried. It's just – Sick? Spock?? That man has taken a spear through the femoral artery and still argued about General Order One – and quite convincingly at that –, right up until the point he passed out, halfway through laying out some twenty-year old prior. Good job Phil is keeping whatever this is from spreading around the ship, his mind remarks morbidly. 

It's just unsettling to not have him there for their weekly chess night, that's all. With quiet resignation, Pike decides to do what Spock would tell him to do if he was there, which is to tackle some of the endless paperwork that keeps trying to take over his desk. After his mind has gone completely numb from duty rosters and requisition forms, he tries to make it an early night. But by the time he's finally stopped tossing and turning (almost strangling himself with his own sheets at one point), it's gone three in the morning, and then he just sits up alone in the star-speckled darkness of his quarters and stares morosely at the abandoned chess tower. Their latest match keeps replaying in his mind, though he's getting fuzzy on the details. (Admittedly, the last time he was in a situation to play chess at nearly four in the morning, he was... a bit younger.)

He is relieved when the chrono finally chimes at him to get up to the bridge. The morning shift turns out to be one of the worst he's had in a long time. The only good thing is that his crew like him so well, and that nothing much really happens all day. The one time Lieutenant D'Mor at Ops speaks up to inform him that there's been a delay in the scheduled inspection of the aft Jefferies tubes, he honest-to-goodness snaps at her. There is a long, awkward silence after that. He tries out an apology in his mind, but he can't get it to sound right. He fidgets. He stops himself from prowling around the bridge, knowing it'll put his people even more ill at ease. His uniform itches. He tries pulling up crew evaluations to take his mind off things, but he can't focus. Whenever he tries to read, all he hears are Spock's precise tones. 

When finally (blessedly!) Commander Perkins shows up to relieve him for beta shift, it's all he can do not to run for the turbolift. A weird, tingly ache has taken hold of his body, and his mind... He feels just about ready to climb the walls. Maybe he's coming down with the same thing Spock has, it occurs to him. He should go see Phil, maybe get himself quarantined as well. He could share with Spock, another part of his brain chimes in, and suddenly the idea that an unkonwn alien pathogen may be spreading on his ship seems strangely unconcerning. 

'Snap out of it, Chris!', he tells himself sternly and decides to head to the gym instead. A good workout is sure to put him to sleep tonight. On the treadmill, the steady rhythm of footfalls and breathing lets his mind go blissfully blank while his body burns off some of that nervous energy. But then he moves on to the barbells, and as soon as he slows down to fix his posture, the tingly restlessness comes back with a vengeance. Maybe there really is something wrong with him. He cleans up – momentarily soothed by the pounding spray from the shower, hot enough to scald -, then stalks out of the gym to go find Phil.


	2. Chapter 2

When the door chimes, Spock barely stifles a growl of frustration. He has been sitting for – he's not sure exactly how long, but the fire in the pot in the corner has burned down to glowing embers –, trying to marshal his thoughts, to breathe, to accept, and just as he was beginning to make progress... He moves over to the door and jabs at the privacy lock to open it. Surely Dr. Boyce would know better – He had been quite clear –

“Captain.” If a little surprise can be detected in Spock's voice... He tries not to dwell on it. Captain Pike doesn't seem to notice – he blinks at Spock, seeming momentarily at a loss at finding himself in front of the lieutenant's quarters. Then a decision crystallizes in his eyes. “May I come in?”  
Spock steps aside without conscious thought, and the door whispers shut behind the captain. Only then does it occur to Spock what a monumentally bad idea this is. In his present condition, it is imperative that he keep himself separate from the crew, lest – Spock does not wish to contemplate the possible – likely – ramifications. If he could just meditate...

“Spock, are you alright? Phil said you were coming down with something...” Pike trails off, peering at Spock closely in the low light. He stands close enough that Spock can catalogue every detail of his appearance. He is wearing loose slacks and a t-shirt – clearly off-duty –, there is a faint sheen of perspiration on his face, and his pupils are unusually dilated in the reddish semi-darkness. 

“Captain, why are you here?” He feels like there is a bundle of snakes coiling uneasily in the pit of his stomach. It is an irrational sensation, of course, one that he ought to be able to shrug off, but... Everything seems too vivid, too bright, tonight. “I wanted to see you,” his captain says, and his voice sounds wrong. His tone is almost... reverent. It makes the skin at the back of Spock's neck prickle. The churning in his gut intensifies, and even as he tries to push down the realisation of what is happening – of what he has done –, the part of him that still thinks logically points out the obvious conclusion with ruthless clarity. 

This is a violation of every ethical tenet a Vulcan stands for, a crime against everything – Shame rolls through him, hot and heavy, and he finds himself dropping his gaze, unable to look his captain – his friend – in the eye. He does not wish to see the torment he is sure to find there, to find out whether the human is still fighting – or whether he has already lost the struggle against an alien compulsion, against a desire that isn't his, a madness that shouldn't be his to bear... 

Drawing on decades of discipline, Spock takes a steadying breath and forces calm and logic on his unruly thoughts. If he had anticipated that this could happen, he would never have allowed himself to become so close to – But what is, is. The captain – Christopher – Pike; it is easier to think of him as Pike, to shut out the times that they – He is here. He is affected. Spock caused this, he must accept that, but he must move beyond that fact. He must ensure that Christo– that Pike comes through this unharmed, unscarred. He tries not to dwell on the fact that his commanding officer will never trust him the same way again, that he will never again receive that easy touch – A part of Spock keens at the loss, but he stamps down on it and forces himself to focus.

“Captain, I believe you are – that I have –” He falters, grasping for words. He has to explain to Christopher what is happening, give him a chance – not a choice, not really, at this point, but at least a chance to consent, to understand. But how can he even begin to explain this, to an offworlder no less, someone who has no idea of the depths – Spock grits his teeth in frustration, but forces himself to look up, to meet Christopher's eyes. He's so close...

“Christopher, I need your help,” is all he finally manages. It comes out strangled. The other man meets his gaze evenly. “I'm right here,” he says, just like that, like that settles it. And Spock can feel the conviction behind the words. This isn't the fever talking, this is his friend. 

Without conscious thought, he steps closer, into the human's personal space, raising his hand. He is suddenly burning for the touch, for the closeness, for this unflinching acceptance. He feels as if he has hungered for this for years, wants to wrap himself in it, to let it envelop and encompass him.

Spock catches himself just before his fingers reach Christopher's temple. The human hasn't move when Spock crowded into his space; he just stands there, quiet and open, watching Spock's face. Still, it is only proper to ask. “May I?” Christopher nods wordlessly. 

Christopher doesn't quite know what to expect when Spock approaches him, raising a hand to his face. But he knows, as surely as the fire smoldering in his bones, that this is _right_ , that this is Spock, and that, whatever the hell it is that's going on here, they will face it together. Of course he knows that Vulcans are touch telepaths, and it's not like it'd be the first time someone goes rummaging in his thoughts – after years of deep-space exploration, that kind of comes with the territory. But the fact that this is Spock – a man so reserved it took Christopher nearly a year before he started to think that they might actually be friends – standing there, reaching for him like a drowning man...

He didn't know what to expect, but when Spock's fingers settle softly on his temple, his mind is hit with a tidal wave of images and sensations and feelings that nothing could have prepared him for. The fire from his bones suddenly roars through his body, his senses reeling with a dizzying kaleidoscope of smell and sound and touch, and the sheer burning _need_ underneath it all – 

It feels like a lifetime later that Spock's hand falls away, but the startled gasp is still stuck in his throat, and his knees haven't quite had time to buckle. “I apologize,” Spock begins, holding himself tall and stiff and brittle. But Christopher interrupts him: “How –” He takes a shaky breath, tries again: “How long have you been going through this?”

“I began experiencing symptoms six point two days ago,” Spock informs him clinically. He sounds almost like his normal self. “When they became too severe to control, I confined myself to quarters.” “Jesus...” Christopher exhales. Without thinking, he pulls the slender form against him and holds the younger man tightly. The roiling madness is still there under his touch, but it has a different... chord now. Christopher just holds on, rubbing Spock's back as if he was much younger. They just stand there for long minutes, silent, and slowly some of the stiff tension begins to bleed out of Spock. His body molds itself to Christopher, his face buried against the older man's shoulder. His harsh breathing fills the stillness of the quarters, and there is a faint tremor running through his shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

Christopher's fingers have found Spock's hand and started mindlessly soothing, rubbing soft circles into his palm and running feather-light trails down his fingers. The Vulcan's hands are amazing, he finds himself thinking idly, strong and capable, yet so sensitive – the lightest flutter against the pad of his thumb sends actual shivers through Spock's body. Christopher does it again, transfixed. Spock shifts his weight, pressing closer. 

Spock raises his head to meet Christopher's gaze. His dark eyes, normally so focused, look lost... Then he brings up his hand again (Christopher tries not to notice how empty his own suddenly feels, settling on Spock's back instead) and ever so slowly reaches for Christopher's lips. 

The contact comes as less of a shock this time – the maelstrom of sensations had been churning at the back of his mind all along; it just snaps back into focus, bright and sharp –, but the wave of _want_ and _need_ that comes with it rolls over him like a tsunami, stealing his breath and blocking out everything else. He blindly grasps the back of Spock's neck, closing the last inches between them, and kisses him like a starving man. 

Feeling Spock's reaction in his arms – the convulsive tightening of his body, the strangled noise in the back of his throat, the barrage of emotion rushing into Christopher's mind, almost painfully intimate – makes the desire flare dizzyingly. But a part of him startles at the sudden intensity, and he forces himself to draw back, to try to think for a moment about what is happening here. Spock is a junior officer under his command, Christopher outranks him, and Spock is clearly under the influence of _something_. Somewhere in his brain, a tiny alarm bell starts ringing. He pulls back, clears his throat. “Spock,” he tries. The younger man looks up – dishevelled, wild, irresis– “Spock, what is going on?” Spock's eyes, normally so calm and soft, flicker madly, but he doesn't reply. “Do you want this?” Spock's tongue darts out to lick his lips. “I... need...” He falters, reaching for Christopher instead, pulling him back in, down the rabbithole, with him...

They stumble over to the bunk and tumble down in a jumble of limbs. Spock is on top of him in a flash; exploring, caressing, claiming him... When he nips at the sensitive spot on Christopher's neck, starbursts of pleasure explode on his skin, and any hope of rational thought is shot. And it seems like Spock can somehow feel his reaction, too, because he comes back to the very spot, worrying at it with his lips, his teeth...

At some point Christopher becomes aware that his trousers have become painfully tight, and he reaches for his waistband with clumsy fingers. Goodness, he hasn't even gotten out of his shirt yet! “Spock, don't you think we should lose the clothes?”, he mumbles. He's not sure whether Spock really processes the words at this point, but somehow the message seems to get through, because Spock tears himself away just long enough to rip off his robe.

The skin-to-skin contact seems to ground Spock somehow. He is still all over Christopher – stroking, nuzzling, ... – but the wild torrent of desire has settled to a steady, heavy thrum, like a giant's heartbeat. Christopher isn't quite sure where his mind ends and Spock's begins – too many sensations echo between them, and he can feel half-formed thoughts with unfamiliar shapes and knowledge that he knows isn't his, hovering just out of reach – but it feels more... stable. It is completely alien compared to anything he has experienced before, but it feels... good. It feels right. 

Yet even as the connection between them settles, the desire keeps building to an unbearable high. His body is aching for physical release, and the raw need he senses from Spock only intensifies the feeling. He tries to get a hold of Spock, to maneuver him into a better position, to get on top so he can properly – But instead he finds himself flung flat on his back, pinned to the mattress with superhuman strength. Spock holds his gaze unblinkingly, caressing his fingers in slow, agonizing strokes, but on the other front... Christopher groans in frustration, helplessly bucking his hips upwards. He _knows_ Spock wants the same thing, he can feel his arousal, the answering twitch of his hips, so why the hell is the man still messing around like a – Oh.

“Spock,” he asks softly, “have you ever done this before?” Dammit, he should have realized this sooner. He'd never thought too much about where all the little Vulcans come from, but they sure didn't seem the type to start fooling around in high school... Dark eyes look up at him from under long lashes, and this time he actually gets a verbal answer. “I have studied the mating practices of 47 sentient species,” Spock replies evenly, and Christopher thinks he may be the only one who would notice the uncertainty hiding under that cool statement of fact. “Well, I hope you weren't planning on putting all of that knowledge to use tonight,” he quips, and in the back of his mind he catches a frisson of something light from Spock. It tastes like laughter. He draws Spock into his arms. “Don't worry, kid; I've got you,” he whispers, and Spock doesn't object.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: things get pretty explicit from here on!
> 
> Also: thank you so much for the lovely and encouraging comments! They really make my day :) They even make me post more chapters, though it did take me a bit to get them up... Sorry about that. But the good news is that the work is nearly finished now, so I can post the rest of the chapters on a regular schedule (will try, anyway). Enjoy!

Holding Spock's eyes, Christopher runs an exploratory hand down his side. His skin is smooth and hot to the touch, and the heartbeat low under his ribs is strong and fast. He moves down further, reaching around to cup Spock's ass. Hopefully it's not too obvious that he's figuring this out as he goes along just as much as Spock is. It's been ages since that bout of drunk fooling around with... Josh, was it? in high school, and it feels strange to be touching another man. But then, how different can it be? He knows how to make another person feel good, knows what works on himself, and he's willing to give it a shot.

He moves his hand to the front, between their bodies. Spock is rock-hard already and he quivers at the slightest brush. And in his mind – Christopher has to bite back a gasp as the sensation hits him, vibrant, visceral, no less real than if it was his own body. He can work with that... He touches Spock again, testing the waters, and this time he's more prepared for the feeling. It's not quite the same as touching himself, he notices, but subtly different – alien – and he can feel it's a... different perspective, like double vision. But if he lets his mind unfocus just a bit, lets the line between them blur... It's like they are single being, touching and touched, seeking only pleasure. He lets the sensations guide him, turning his hand just a little, rubbing that spot just so...

He can feel the tension building in Spock's groin, hot and bright like light spreading through his body. He tries to slow down, to take their time to enjoy this, but Spock is having none of it. He bucks into Christopher's hand, impatient, desperate, and a just a few frantic thrusts later, the white-hot wave of sensation crests and then comes crashing down around them. He can feel Spock's body tensing convulsively under his hands, riding out the climax, but he can also _feel_ the spasms running through his own body, a burning nova of pleasure and release. He is vaguely aware that he hasn't even touched himself, that some part of him is still hard and aching, but it feels so good... He lets the high wash over him, lets it engulf him, and finally collapses back onto the bed, boneless and spent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: we're getting into a bit of a grey area here as far as consent is concerned. If that isn't something you want to read, now is the time to stop. Next chapter will be back to normal, though.

When he feels like he can move again, Christopher makes to shuffle down, vague ideas about lips and tongue and teeth bubbling up in his mind, half-formed but deliciously tempting. But before he can quite sort out his limbs, Spock is suddenly up again. He is looming over Christopher, long fingers clasping his wrists like duranium cuffs. “No,” he pants, “I...” He licks his lips, struggling for words. Suddenly an image bursts into Christopher's mind instead, bright and detailed and unequivocal. And with it comes a wave of feelings, visceral, urgent. “I want you,” Spock demands. 

Christopher balks at the image. “Spock, I've never –” He is out of his depth here. He's never done this, has only the vaguest idea how it even works with two males, based on nothing more than a handful of holovids and one exceedingly awkward evening of drunk confessions with a gay friend in college. But he's pretty clear on the part where both parties should be relaxed and prepared for the experience, and tonight is about as far from – But before he can finish the thought, the image in his head becomes more insistent, engulfing his mind with sensations of _tight_ and _full_ and _joined_. It becomes so overwhelming, so enthralling, so real that it pushes out any uncertainty or doubt, leaving no room for anything but pure, unqualified _want_. 

Christopher feels himself rolling over as if in a trance, looking up at Spock with unquestioning trust as he is hovering above him, caressing his hands, his lips, stroking his temples, his mind, curling around him, permeating him... When he sees Spock produce a bottle of lube, he can't even fathom why he would have been worried before. There's only rippling anticipation of shared pleasure, and he eagerly shifts his weight to give Spock better access.

The slick, hot fingers probing at his entrance feel strange, disconcerting. Some distant part of him thinks he should stop this, should think it through, but of course there is nothing to be afraid of – this is going to feel great... The fingers circle curiously, probing the puckered flesh, the tense muscle... He can actually feel the exquisite texture of his skin in Spock's mind, and it's the most amazing sensation. He cannot wait – 

When the first finger slips past the tight ring of muscle, there is a flash of _no-wait-confusion-pain-too-fast_. Christopher jerks back, startled out of the haze of lust. Something is not right here, he realizes, even as the sensations rolling off Spock threaten to engulf him again. He tries to drown them out, to hold onto his own will. The finger is moving inside him, massaging the muscle, loosening him up, and it feels so good... 

Christopher hisses when Spock suddenly adds a second finger, stretching him uncomfortably, trying to work deeper... “Spock, slow down,” he pants, but it's hard to focus enough to form words in the jumble of shared feelings coursing through him. And then Spock twists his wrist, slipping even deeper – burning – and his fingers hit a spot that makes Christopher see stars. He can't tell whether it's pleasure or pain, it's all mixed up, too intense, but Spock growls and does it again, and soon it doesn't matter anymore. Christopher gets lost in the rhythm of Spock's thrusting fingers, hitting his prostate relentlessly with each stroke, too fast – not fast enough – It doesn't take long before the stimulation becomes too much for Christopher; he bucks wildly, his muscles clenching painfully around Spock's fingers, and finally falls back onto the bed, completely spent. 

Christopher floats in a haze of exhaustion and bliss; the only thing he really registers is Spock's body pressed against his. Spock's fingers pull out of him – thank God; he's going to be so sore tomorrow... His eyelids are getting too heavy to hold open, so he just reaches down blindly to cradle Spock against him. 

Spock presses back against Christopher, but he doesn't seem inclined to settle down. He is still full of energy, coiled like a spring. His hands roam around eagerly, teasing his taut nipples, their heat scorching his hypersensitive flesh... and when he brushes Christopher's temples, the link between them flares back to life. Desire rushes back into Christopher's mind, and despite the spent heaviness of his limbs, he wants to – he wants to lie here and bask in the glow – but he feels suddenly hard again, needing – The mental images clash madly. He doesn't know which way to go, which way is up or down – it's like being back in zero g for the first time during basic training, except back then at least he knew which body he belonged in... But the confusion only lasts a moment before he once more gets swept up in the flow of lust, and all that matters is the deep, primal need for a joining.

Spock is hard again already, writhing urgently, and when he pushes at Christopher's knees this time, it doesn't even occur to him to object. He's too relaxed, too high on hormones and the desire radiating from Spock, to really care what happens. When Spock positions himself against his entrance, there are no more doubts, no more boundaries, just pure anticipation flooding through both of them, and it drowns out the searing pain when Spock pushes in in one long, determined slide. He cants his hips, adjusting his angle so that each thrust draws a harsh burst of pleasure from Christopher's body. When he begins moving in earnest, he sets a punishing rhythm, stretching, grinding, touching and touched... The last of Christopher's awareness is drowned out in a maelstrom of conflicting sensations that makes everything else fade to meaningless black.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Christopher becomes aware of as he slowly floats back towards consciousness is pain. Not the sharp, searing pain of broken bones or torn flesh, but a dull, sore ache all over his body. When he tries to roll to his side, overexerted muscles protest everywhere, and his groin... Even his head hurts, a dull pounding behind his eyes to rival the worst combination of dehydration, sleep deprivation and exotic drugs that he's ever had the misfortune to experience.

The second thing he becomes aware of is that he's alone. The feverish heat of Spock's body next to his is gone, and when he forces open his eyes, squinting even in the low light, he finds the quarters empty. There is a tissue regenerator on the bedstand, and it takes Christopher a while to realize what this means: this is something the rational, practical Spock would do. To do what needs to be done and then move on, coolly efficient. (He tries not to picture how Spock used the tissue regenerator on his unconscious form, _where_ he used it, in the cold light of the morning after. At least this means he won't have to choose between the prospect of owning up to Phil and the risk of fainting from untreated internal haemorrhage in the middle of his shift.) 

It is good to know that Spock is back to his usual self, he reminds himself. It means that whatever mad tumble down the rabbithole they took last night is clearly over. He can just move on, leave this whole confusing mess behind him. Yes. Forget the sight of Spock hovering above him, his eyes smouldering, unguarded for once, full of emotions he doesn't dare name. Get over the arousal that still clings to him, too heavy, unnatural, stubbornly refusing to leave. Push aside the unsettling knowledge – not just theoretical any more, but really knowing in his heart – that there's a good reason why Vulcans keep themselves so tightly controlled, and what happens when that control is shattered... Forget the feeling of being pushed back in the mattress, overwhelmed by fantasies that aren't his, too out of it to know any more whether he actually wants this – and the nagging doubt that Spock didn't know any more, either... And never mind the petty fact that he is technically Spock's commanding officer, and just really the overarching question of what the hell happened last night... 

He cuts off the whirling thoughts by forcing himself out of bed and into the 'fresher. God, getting upright hurts even more than he'd thought. It makes a good distraction. The full-length mirror in the bathroom reveals a sickening pattern of bruises – on his wrists, his shoulder, his hips... He turns his back on the disturbing sight and flicks on the sonic. One clean uniform from the replicator later and he is ready to flee the scene, and to leave this whole mad affair far behind him. 

Except, of course, he can't outrun a fellow officer on his own ship. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: Spock's POV!


	7. Chapter 7

The first things Spock becomes aware of when he wakes is that it is 5:17am ship's time, that he has sustained minor strain to several muscles in his lower abdomen, and that there is a human sprawled alongside him. Cool skin, slow, deep breaths, a vague murmur of familiar thoughts – Christopher, fast asleep. His mental shields have reasserted themselves, reducing the slow, dreamy images in Christopher's mind to the barest whisper against his own.

The memories of the previous night do not come rushing back at him – they are laid out in his mind in perfect clarity for him to examine. He can coolly assess every action and reaction, catalogue with clinical precision every irrational act, every trespass, every violation. He is gratified, of course, to have escaped the madness and to be once more in control of himself, capable of logical thought. Nonetheless, considering the entirety of the implications of... what they did last night, he concludes that it would have been preferable if his captain had not gotten involved.

While his mind turns over the events, he rises from the bed and begins to gather the discarded clothes from the floor. (When he picks up the robe he was wearing, he finds a long tear down the front, mangling the elegant calligraphy embroidered in the fabric. He tosses it at the recycling unit in the corner with a sharp flick of his wrist. It is only logical to discard a dysfunctional object, he tells himself.) He moves to the bathroom to perform his ablutions, dons his uniform. Then he turns back to the sleeping form under the tangled sheets.

He reminds himself that regret or shame would be illogical. What happened, happened, and he was under the influence of a biochemical imbalance at the time and had no control over his actions. (And yet he is still responsible for the consequences, a small voice whispers. _He_ was the one who reached out to Christopher, who – ) But no, an emotional reaction on his part would only serve to complicate his interactions with Captain Pike going forward. That would be... unacceptable.

Of course, Captain Pike's reaction to what happened is another matter entirely, and Spock cannot even speculate how the human might respond. Last night, Christopher willingly offered himself, blind to the consequences, to help his... friend. (The memory of that feeling blooms in Spock's mind, and it takes him two point four seconds to shut it down. He might not be completely recovered from last night's madness yet.) But after everything that followed... Spock has observed, on many occasions, that humans, while superficially effusive – even smothering – in their eagerness to embrace just about any species they encounter, at some deeper, unconscious level often remain wary of those who are different. This is a well-known fact among comparative xenoanthropologists: any species that forms small, tightly knit bands tends to be keenly sensitive to any characteristics that set outsiders apart from their own group and instinctively reject them. Spock understands this, and has therefore trained himself to minimize the observable differences that might set him apart from his human colleagues. It is only logical to do so, if he is to interact with them efficiently.

But Captain Pike – Christopher – always seemed less... reliant on this adaptation. When Spock stiffly avoids skin-to-skin contact, the captain takes it in his stride, unfazed. When Spock eschews social gatherings that involve ethanol, 'small talk' and other increasingly illogical undertakings, Christopher invites him to chess instead. And even those times when Spock becomes deeply engrossed in his scientific work, lost in the sheer beauty of it – not that he would ever describe it in those words, not to a human and certainly not to a Vulcan – he suspects, deep down, that Christopher somehow understands.

It is possible, he concludes, that his relationship with Captain Pike will survive last night's events. He does not hope for this outcome. Hope is an illogical emotional investment in a future that may or may not come to pass. But it would be... unconstructive to dwell on the alternative.

Still gazing at the sleeping human, Spock suddenly realizes that Christopher requires medical attention. He locates his tricorder and a small tissue regenerator and begins to run them over his... patient with practised hands, volume turned low to avoid disturbing him. It will be more conducive to Christo– to the captain's recovery if he be allowed to sleep, he reasons. He works over his body meticulously, locating every laceration, every tear. There's little he can do about the bruising, but that will fade on its own. He does not falter, doesn't pause to steady his hands, when he discovers the smear of reddish-brown blood on the sheets. It is only logical, he tells himself sternly, the he confront the injuries he caused. He works more quickly after that. Finally, having done all that he can, he exits his quarters and moves in long strides towards the science labs.


	8. Chapter 8

“Captain.”  
“Lieutenant.”  
“These are the reports you had requested.”  
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to work on the same bridge with Spock every day and not actually interact with him. Some days Pike feels like he's just gone back in time to the months after Spock first came aboard, when the stiff, distant formality was all there was between them. He tries not to notice all the small spaces where there is supposed to be something more – a shared glance, a quip, a brush of shoulders, that subtle quirk of Spock's eyebrow that is his version of a cheeky grin. It's better to not notice. 

* * *

It has been 31 days since... since. It's not that Spock has been counting specifically – he simply knows, just as he knows how many days and hours it has been since he first arrived on this ship, or since their first away mission, or – At any rate, 31 days is the period he has determined as appropriate for monitoring how... effectively Captain Pike and himself will be able to work together, given the... change in circumstances. Comparing the dynamics of their interactions to those with other bridge officers, Spock finds that the captain addresses him in matters related to his role as a science officer with typical frequency, suggesting no reluctance on his part, and Spock has made it a point to ensure that the work he delivers continues to be nothing short of exemplary. They have been on one away mission together in the period in question, and the captain's decision to send Spock off with the other half of the landing party was perfectly logical given the parameters of the mission. 

And yet... They have not consumed a meal together in 38 days – not since before Spock withdrew to his quarters at the onset of the first symptoms. They have, on several occasions, had dinner at the same time, sat at the same table even; a natural progression from a shift spent together on the bridge. But they were always surrounded by other fellow officers, and somehow the captain always ended up sitting with his first officer, or the new navigator that joined them on Starbase Three, or any one of fourteen other individuals. It is a matter of simple combinatorics to see that this is, in fact, not statistically unlikely. And yet... 

They have not played chess in 41 days. After... the event, Dr Boyce listed him as 'in recovery' for an additional eleven days, and Spock did not object. It was logical to focus his energy solely on his work and extensive meditation. And after that... He did not wish to pressure Christopher. It seemed most appropriate to wait for the human to 'make the first move' in re-establishing their routine. He has not done so.

And there are other, more subtle observations. In the past 31 days, the captain has not once offered Spock a light pat on the shoulder, or a quick grasp of his biceps, or any of the other touches that Spock has come to recognize as signs of camaraderie with his crew. (It would be illogical to miss them, Spock reminds himself. These unpredictable intrusions upon his personal space were simply unnecessary disturbances to his inner equilibrium.) It is harder for Spock to categorise and quantify the 'banter' that his shipmates use to lighten the atmosphere during a long shift, but in the instances he recognised over the past 31 days, somehow none of the wordplay and gentle teasing were directed at him. And the captain's voice and facial expressions... Despite years of careful study of the humans around, Spock is conservative in his analysis, but he does believe that there is a certain... clip to his orders that didn't use to be there, and his gaze when he meets Spock's eyes (which has been occurring 57% less frequently than before) is somehow... brittle. And then, three days ago, as they were analysing an asteroid set to strike an inhabited planet and Captain Pike finally came to stand beside Spock at the science station, he went to point at the viewscreen at the same time as Spock, almost brushing his hand, and he undeniably flinched back from the contact. 

Taken in isolation, the signs are barely detectable over the noise of typical noise of human behaviour. Part of him – a part that sounds rather like his father – questions whether these are meaningful observations at all, considering the vagaries of human behaviour. But another part of him, one that deals less in articulate logical arguments and more in... impressions, is all too certain of the conclusion. 

Having carefully considered all angles of the situation, Lieutenant Spock sits down at his console to compose his request for a transfer off the Enterprise.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and now the conclusion. Thank you so much for all your comments, kudos or even just reading. Enjoy!

“Come.”  
“Captain...” The doors swish closed behind him.  
“I was wondering whether you had had a chance to consider my request yet.”  
Pike looks up at him, his eyes shadowed.  
“I'm sorry, lieutenant. I haven't had –” He catches himself. He's down, yes, but he hasn't fallen quite so low. Spock deserves the truth. “It's complicated,” he offers, and isn't that the understatement of the year. He rubs his hands across his face tiredly, then looks up at Spock.  
“Do you want to leave?”  
Spock is tempted to point out that this is the logical reason he filed a transfer request, but now that he's standing here... “It is... complicated,” he replies. 

* * *

It is 3:57am ship's time when he emerges from his meditation to find the light on his communications console flashing in the dark. There is one new message. 

From: Cpt Pike, Christopher  
Re: Transfer request

This is an automated notification. Your request for a transfer has been denied.

* * *

“Captain.”  
“Lieutenant.”  
“Deck five,” Spock requests.  
Christopher carefully maintains a loose parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes trained dead ahead, engrossed in a detailed survey of the doors of the turbolift.  
“Captain –” Spock has turned towards him, and he risks a glance.  
“Would you be amenable to a game of chess?”  
He swallows. Half a dozen emotions are warring in his eyes as he really looks at Spock for the first time in too many weeks.  
“Yes.”  
He almost runs out of the turbolift when the doors open, but there is a spring in his step that hasn't been there in a long time.


End file.
